Harry James Potter (prophecychild) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2018-07-28 07:54:00 |
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Harry had had the oddest feeling of 'otherness' since getting back from space, sort of like when you got off a boat and felt like you were still swaying; not that he'd had many experiences on boats, but being on earth after a couple of weeks in the vastness of space definitely felt... strange. Of course it didn't help that everything back on 'earth' was now different, too; his purple uniform had been replaced by a realistic sort of Halloween cowboy costume, though this was actually more comfortable. The constant sand and dirt everywhere was not comfortable, however, and while he liked to be outside most of the time rather than cooped up in his room, he had to go back there a couple times a day to shower, or at least wash his face, which felt like it had a film of dirt over it at all times. Uncomfortable. He was heading back out again with his sketchbook under his arm. He'd started trying some landscapes in pencil, which he found easier than trying to draw people, as the landscape didn't move as much and didn't look so wrong if and when he made a mistake with perspective. He still wasn't sure why he was doing it, as no one so far had come around to examine his work, but it was something to do. Of course, he would have liked to spend all his time with his family, if he could - including Sirius - but he didn't want to overwhelm them by his presence. He understood perhaps better than anyone how strange it must be for them, and they had already had a lot to take in about their future without him coming to heap further coals on the fire. He tried to be patient, in the expectation that they would come to him when they were ready. Stepping out of his door, he had only gone a few steps before another door opened, a door he had scrupulously avoided so far, and he stopped short. He hadn't spoken to James yet. He had been wondering if asking Sirius to break all the worst news to him had been the right thing to do. He didn't see how else he could have gone about it short of tapping him on the shoulder and announcing "Hey, I'm your son!", but clearly it had affected his father deeply, and he hadn't wanted to make things even worse. And then space had interrupted things. Now though he was stuck in a difficult position - he could hardly turn around without looking deeply strange, and it was either that or push past without a word. He could hardly pretend he didn't recognise his own father, not when he looked - oh dear - so much like himself, and the spit and image of every photo and every memory he had seen in his life. So he just sort of stood there, dumbly, staring, blinking behind his glasses, at the father he had never known. |